


The Misadventure of the Mendacious Medium

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Case Fic, Humor, Spiritualism, Watson's not always predictable you know, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 15:57:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2698799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson assists Holmes in one of his cases with unexpected results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Misadventure of the Mendacious Medium

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SCFrankles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SCFrankles/gifts).



> Written for scfrankles as part of the ACD_Holmesfest gift exchange. ACD told us to do what we liked with them. I’ve taken him at his word. Various references to actual Victorian institutions, as well as Victorian attitudes and customs. Holmes’ opinions are his alone, not meant as a reflection on the institutions themselves.

I have done many things for Holmes over the course of the years. I have tolerated his messes, his moods, and his after-hours musical interludes. I have rendered medical aid, both welcome (tending various injuries) and unsolicited (gradually weaning him from his drug habit). And I have actively assisted him in his cases, in whatever capacity I could. Gladly so, most of the time. Less gladly, I admit, when my ‘assistance’ amounted to being taken in by Holmes, fooled or deluded for some scheme of his. I understood that he was not acting out of malice when he did this, but rather was placing the advancement of his case over mere ‘trivial’ matters. My personal comfort and dignity ranked lower than the welfare of his clients and his pursuit of the truth in Holmes’ intellectual calculus, as indeed most everything did. But knowing this did not always resign me to it.

So it was perhaps understandable that I reacted to Holmes’ latest request with a notable lack of enthusiasm. “You want me to do what?”

Holmes’ eyes twinkled with a combination of amusement and enthusiasm, visible even from the depths of his armchair by the fire. “Pay a call on a local medium, and ask him for a consultation with the spirits.” The amusement faded, replaced by that familiar keenness that heralded Holmes on the track of some criminal matter. “You were very good to indulge my request that you spend the day at your club, my dear fellow. I would have far preferred you with me, but our new client absolutely insisted on seeing me alone. In fact, you could have remained here in comfort, for she did not come here herself. Rather, I found myself summoned away, and instructed to visit her at… Well, let us just say that I made my way to her in disguise, and met in conditions of the strictest secrecy.”

“Does she wish my participation at all, then?”

“She has no objections, and indeed would welcome your assistance,” Holmes assured me. “Our client knows your worth, Watson. However, she was wise to insist on precautions in the initial meeting, for she is in a delicate position. She is a widow with very little endowed on her in her own right. Her son controls all the finances. Unfortunately he does not appear to have half the intelligence or good sense of our client. While he is quite successful financially, he has not been so fortunate in personal matters. He is a relatively recent widower with several small children. Judging from what our client says, his late wife was a very good, very sensible woman, and probably kept him from a number of follies. Now that she has gone, he has fallen into the clutches of Aloysius Cranwell.”

I shook my head. “I have never heard of him.”

“I am not surprised.” Holmes tapped a page in one of his index volumes, already open and on his lap. “He is no publicity-hunter, like William Eglinton or the late Reverend Stainton Moses, and he has taken some care to avoid the attention of public entities such as the Society of Psychical Research and even the Ghost Club. He is, however, well-known enough in certain circles, and has a moderately large, if private, clientele. In fact, he has come to my attention more than once in the course of other cases, if only incidentally.” He paused and took a long draw on his pipe. “He is a cunning fellow, with an eye to the future, and not just focused on the present. I have some reason to believe that he’s been warned against me, possibly more than once. We have met in person twice, briefly. From my own observations of him, I would say that he is unusually perceptive, even more so than those who make their living preying on the fears and superstitions of others. There is some chance that if I approached him directly, however disguised, he might recognize me.”

I straightened upright in my chair, astonished. In all the years I had assisted Holmes in his cases, I could count on one hand the number of times he had expressed any kind of doubt in his ability to disguise himself, and still have plenty of fingers left over. “My dear Holmes, if he’s as perceptive as that, how can I possibly be of use to you?”

“By providing a useful distraction,” Holmes replied at once. “Cranwell is much less likely to pay any attention to the manservant of a potentially lucrative new client than he is to the prospective pigeon himself. Particularly since said manservant will remain below-stairs, under the supposedly watchful eye of his servants. You will be the focus, while I take the opportunity to learn the lay of the house, if nothing else. With any luck, I might even be able to search for the evidence that will prove Cranwell a fraud, at least enough for our client to use with her son.” He took another draw on his pipe and blew out a long, thin stream of smoke. “It will be all right, Watson, you’ll see. While you are no natural dissembler, you do well enough when not asked to spin a tale out of whole cloth.”

“Indeed?” I retorted, half-flattered and half-annoyed, as I often was when faced with one of Holmes’ sideways-compliments. “What cloth shall I be selling this time?”

* * *

It was, as Holmes suggested, in the persona of a gentleman not entirely dissimilar to myself that I appeared for my appointment with Aloysius Cranwell two days later. I presented my card at the door – that of one Mr. Michael Gordon, late of Her Majesty’s Army – and endured the surprisingly sharp assessment of the manservant with reasonable aplomb. I was largely what I pretended to be, after all; a middle-aged widower of reasonable means, somewhat nervous and uncertain in my mind about consulting Mr Cranwell, and half-wishing I was somewhere else. According to Holmes’ instructions, I simply had to pretend to rather more credulity about the spiritualists, and rather less knowledge of the world, than I actually had. That, and give an entirely spurious account of my lady friend whose hand I was considering asking for in marriage, if only I could be easy in my mind that my late wife would approve.

My own Mary would have laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks at this charade, I was sure. Deliberately, I set thoughts of her aside, and tried to focus on my role.

We were on time for our – my – appointment, but nonetheless we were kept waiting in the parlour for almost half an hour. A maid brought a pot of tea and some biscuits after the first ten minutes passed, and was so clearly nervous, and so timidly apologetic, I could not help but drink three cups of the tea she kept pouring out, although the brew was a strong, smoky Oriental type that was not one I particularly liked. She initially poured out for Holmes, too, entirely improperly of course, but with such a dismayed squeak when she realized her error that even such a stiff, elderly, old-fashioned servant (Holmes, ever in character) could not but accept the cup, albeit with a slight harrumph.

At last the man himself appeared with a graceful apology for the delay, along with an allusion to having been in consultation with the spirits until just a few minutes ago. I endeavoured to look impressed while gathering my own impressions of the man. I had half-expected to meet a man with eyes as keen and quicksilver as Holmes’ own. But Aloysius Cranwell’s deep-set brown eyes looked almost sleepy under his heavy lids. Likewise, his entire demeanour was tranquil to the point of lethargic. He was a middling man in height and girth, well-dressed, brown hair, moustache, and beard neatly trimmed, with nothing particularly remarkable about his appearance one way or another. The only thing out of the ordinary about him was his rich, deep bass voice.

“Let us adjourn upstairs, and I shall place myself entirely at your disposal,” Cranwell boomed after I had introduced myself. He glanced over at Holmes, and one eyebrow rose slightly in disapproval. “Carrie, please escort Mr. Gordon’s man below stairs. I’m sure he could wait more comfortably there.” Unspoken, but clearly understood, was Cranwell’s desire not to have a servant waiting in his parlour as if he was a visitor of consequence.

I left Holmes behind and followed Cranwell up a broad set of carpeted stairs. A sturdy oak-panelled door opened upon a well-appointed library with thick velvet curtains shrouding the windows. Shaded gas lamps on the walls fought back the gloom, allowing me glimpses of the various items crowding the shelves: small figurines from India; a Chinese-looking porcelain dragon; weird tribal masks from Africa; a strange wooden doll trimmed with fur and feathers; a greyish-green crystal sphere; a glass jar filled with jewel-toned butterfly wings; and other, even odder trifles. And books, of course; what looked like hundreds of volumes, mostly leather-bound and solemn-looking, but not all. My lips twitched as I caught glimpse of a few familiar-looking yellow-backed spines hiding at the shadowy end of one shelf. Apparently Aloysius Cranwell’s tastes did not run entirely to the esoteric and strange.

Cranwell gestured to a round table set in the middle of the room, surrounded by five chairs. “Pray take a seat, Mr Gordon. I can tell you have something weighing heavily on your mind. Your aura is quite muddled, particularly on your left side.”

Such a statement might have impressed someone who believed in the spirits, or was not used to their fellow-lodger making even more astute observances almost every day. And I was not supposed to be used to it, I recalled, and did my best to give a surprised start. “My left side, you say? How extraordinary! I often ache on my left side.”

“Indeed,” Cranwell agreed with a small smile, but did not explain further. Flustered, I pulled out a chair at random and sat down. Cranwell circled around and took one of the chairs opposite, on the far side of the table. He folded his hands on the table after seating himself and leaned forward, his eyes intent on my face. “Now, Mr. Gordon. You need not fear confiding in me. Anything you tell me will remain in strictest confidence between us.”

I shifted back and forth in my chair. Despite the seat cushion, it was very hard. “Need I tell you anything at all? Won’t the spirits know what I want to know?”

Much to my surprise, Cranwell agreed with me at once. “The spirits know all, it is true.” He sighed. “But while they are infallible, I am not. I am an imperfect, mortal man, the same as any other, despite the gift God gave me to see into the beyond. The veil of flesh obscures much, even when in communication with those who have cast off such imperfections that all living men are heir to. The more I understand about what you need, what questions trouble you, the better I can interpret whatever the spirits choose communicate.”

This was said in such a reasonable tone that I found myself nodding even before I realized that Mr Michael Gordon would do exactly that. “My word,” I exclaimed. “You make things sound so sensible. I am greatly relieved. I consider myself a simple man, you know. It is comforting to think that there are straightforward explanations to even something as mysterious as the beyond.”

“It is a great comfort to me as well.” His voice was rich and warm, but I thought I saw the faintest traces of a supercilious disdain flicker across his bland features. That was all to the good as far as I was concerned.

“Are the spirits listening now? I mean, all the time?” I asked.

“The spirits are always with us, Mr Gordon.”

No sooner had the words left his lips than I felt a strange, cold tremor jolt up my spine, unlike anything I had ever experienced. I half-jumped out of my chair, only my bad leg preventing me from rising all the way. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

“Is something amiss, Mr Gordon?”

I looked all around the room, but there was nothing nearby. Aloysius Cranwell still looked calm, if slightly curious, his sleepy eyelids no more open than they had been before. I cautiously eased back into my chair. Nothing happened, but I could still feel the prickling of the risen hairs on the back of my neck. “I apologize. I thought I – felt something.”

“You probably did.” That deep voice remained calm, but I thought I detected something threatening underneath its deceptive tranquillity. “You questioned the spirits, Mr Gordon. Innocently enough, perhaps, but that is never wise, particularly for a man who has as many spirits around him as you do.”

“I do?” Too late I realized how sharp I sounded, instead of wondering or credulous.

It did not seem to matter. Cranwell’s eyelids drooped lower until it looked as if he was nearly asleep. “Oh yes,” he said dreamily. “Soldiers, most of them. Spirits need no raiment, but faithfully-held oaths to Queen and country shine in the afterlife like the highest honours. You must have served in the Army, and served well, for so many of your fellow soldiers to remain with you, guarding your path.”

I stiffened in my chair, another cold tingle travelling up my spine along with a hint of superstitious fear. I reminded myself firmly that Holmes had deduced my background as a soldier within seconds of meeting me. Undoubtedly Cranwell had seen enough in my behaviour to guess the same. Either that, or Holmes had taken more care with establishing the character and background of ‘Michael Gordon’ than he had bothered to mention to me. “Amazing,” I breathed, trying to sound astonished and nervous, and not suspicious. “Yes, I was in the Army once, long ago, and my company lost a number of men. Good fellows, all. I think of them often.” I was babbling, I realized, and tried to bring myself back to the point – or at least something that would further my impression of awe at Cranwell’s powers. “But I was no one important, and did nothing special. Why would they choose to be with me?”

If he heard my question, Cranwell did not bother to answer it – at least not directly. “There is another spirit, too, not a soldier, but a man who stands quite close to you.” Cranwell leaned forward slightly in his chair and tilted his head. “He holds something in one hand, not a large object; I cannot quite make it out. He seems troubled, as if he has carried some regret with him into the next world. Something unfinished, perhaps.”

Irresistibly, the idea of my late brother popped into my head. He certainly had enough to regret from the way he wasted his life away with drink. The object in his hand could be our father’s watch, first passed down to Harry, and then to me upon my brother’s death. We had not parted well; the last words that had passed between us were cold ones, more worthy of strangers than brothers. I opened my mouth to say as much. At the last possible moment I remembered myself, and snapped my jaws together so quickly I bit my tongue. I tasted blood, and the jolt of pain made my eyes tear. “How extraordinary,” I mumbled, hoping to cover my reactions. I could feel my pulse racing at the near-disaster.

“There is a woman, too.” This time, instead of leaning forward, Cranwell slumped down deeper into his chair. I could just glimpse a glint of his eyes in the gas-light. “All spirits are lovely, but her spirit shines with a particular radiance. She must be someone who loved you very much.”

 _Mary_. The name trembled on my lips, mixing with the metallic tang of my still-bleeding tongue. My mind raced. How could he know…?

I am not a deductive genius like Holmes. I am a simple man of action. But just then several things came together in my mind, and for a moment I felt as he must often do, when several seemingly unrelated items come together to form a perfect picture.

I lunged across the table and punched Aloysius Cranwell straight between the eyes.

The force of the blow sent him backwards, and his chair overbalanced, sending him to the ground with a loud thump. I raced around the table and crouched next to him moments after he fell. He looked unconscious, but I made sure of it by applying just the right amount of pressure to the blood vessels on either side of the neck. Medical training and experience accompanying Holmes on his cases had both taught me how to render a man senseless as swiftly and as safely as possible, barring chemical assistance. Satisfied that he would not regain consciousness for at least a few minutes, I rose to my feet. I swiftly checked the table and the bookcases, looking for anything else that might help Holmes, then strode to the bell-pull and yanked on it several times.

Holmes had wanted a distraction for Cranwell. I hoped that he would not mind one for the entire house. I went back to the table and waited for the sound of hurrying footsteps.

“Help! Oh God, help me!” I cried, wringing my hands as two servants hastened into the room. “Mr Cranwell – he was attacked by a ghost!”

Events followed swiftly after that. My incoherent account of seeing a ghostly soldier attack Cranwell turned both of the two menservants pale, and one looked faint. I demanded my coat, declaring that I would not stay in such a haunted place a moment longer, and that spirits were far too dangerous to meddle with. The more frightened-looking of the two hurried away as his fellow attempted to tend to his fallen master. As I staggered down the steps and towards the front door, I heard a hysterical shriek from below-stairs, where the scared-looking servant had undoubtedly just told the news to his fellows. Needless to say, I had to fetch my own coat.

I took several deep breaths of the air outside as I left the house. It was thick London air, full of damp and smoke, but I made myself breathe deeply all the same. I knew better than to wait for Holmes; he would make his own way back to Baker Street when he had accomplished what he meant to do, and not a moment before. Instead, I hailed a cab and instructed him to take me to the nearest chemists’ shop.

* * *

It was nearly dark by the time Holmes arrived at Baker Street. There was no sign of his elderly-servant guise, which led me to believe that he had stopped to change clothes at one of his many bolt-places around London. He strode into our sitting-room, crackling with the high energy he always showed when on a case.

“Watson, what did you do?” he demanded practically the moment he entered.

“What I had to, once I realized the tea had been doctored,” I answered wearily. I had spent a most unpleasant half-hour after procuring syrup of ipecacuanha from the chemist, and I could still feel the after-effects. From the severity of my reaction, I was right not to wait until I reached Baker Street and my own supply of the drug in my doctor’s bag. “I wasn’t entirely certain what Cranwell had dosed the tea with, aside from iron, but there was something in it to loosen the tongue and make me suggestible. I wasn’t willing to risk what might happen to my pretence under those circumstances, or what other effects that tea might have had.”

Silence greeted my words. I looked up and saw a faint trace of astonishment on my friend’s face, as well as a hint of concern. Holmes sank into the chair opposite me, still studying my features with care. “I admit I had some suspicions of such a strongly-flavoured brew, particularly when that oh-so-conveniently-green housemaid tried to serve it to me again below-stairs, though I never suspected anything as sinister as that. But how did you know? And why do you say iron?”

I smiled, pleased that for once I knew something Holmes hadn’t expected. “Because that’s what Franz Mesmer used in some of his early experiments – that, and magnets.” Holmes’ eyes widened and my smile grew into a grin. “Don’t look so astonished. I saw several yellow-backed novels in Cranwell’s library. Apparently he shares the same so-called ‘low’ taste in reading matter as I do.” Holmes’ cheeks took on a trace of colour at that, recognizing his own words. I did not press the point further. “There was a moderately popular story two or three years ago that mentioned an iron-laced potion as part of a plot to deceive a young lady. I was curious about what was described and did some research in medical journals to find out if it was plausible. Much to my surprise, I found several descriptions of it, notably of Mesmer’s early work. Fortunately seeing those volumes recalled it to mind, and led me to suspect why I was feeling unusually loquacious as well as experiencing ‘unearthly’ sensations.” I fidgeted. “I could have feigned fright, I suppose, or feeling unwell, but that would have left you unable to pursue your investigation. And truth to be told, I didn’t really think about it much. Once I realized what he must have done, my temper got a bit of the better of me.”

“Very understandably so.” Holmes gave me an approving look. “I take it from the state of your knuckles that you punched him?”

“Yes. It seemed the best way. After I knocked Cranwell out, I found a magnet in my chair, and more in various places underneath the table.”

Holmes shook his head. “Well done, Watson. That was very well-reasoned indeed. I never do get your limits, my dear fellow.” He paused. “But you are quite all right?”

“I will be after a light supper and a good night’s sleep,” I assured him. “Did you get the evidence you needed?”

“Oh yes, although I doubt it will be needed after all.” Holmes’ eyes twinkled as he sank back into the depths of his chair and lit his pipe. “Cranwell himself seemed to believe what the servants told him about a vengeful ghost attacking him. I overheard him giving orders to have a bag packed at once. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he left London for more hospitable – and less haunted – climes at the earliest possible opportunity.” His smile deepened. “And should he find his courage, he might find London a bit hot to hold him. I’ve sent an anonymous packet with some of my findings to the Society for Psychical Research. They’re mostly made up of fools, but unlike the credulous idiots at the Ghost Club, the Society has exposed fraudulent mediums in the past. I rather suspect they wouldn’t mind adding Cranwell to their accomplishments.”

“Then your client’s son will be safe.”

“At least from this charlatan,” Holmes agreed. “And perhaps these events will teach him wisdom. We can only so hope, at least, for our client’s sake.” Holmes puffed on his pipe. “And speaking of lessons – the next time we investigate fraudsters, Watson, try not to drink the tea.”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 22 November 2014


End file.
